


Winter, Autumn, and Spring

by Philosopher_King



Series: Whatever is done from love [7]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Break Up, Dark, Depression, Established Relationship, Loki Feels, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Oral Sex, PWP, Past Torture, Plot? Well Maybe Plot, Porn with Feelings, Porn with minimal Plot, Psychological Trauma, Rape Fantasy, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Rimming, Sexual fantasies about past trauma, Sibling Incest, Switching, Thor Feels, pwmp, sorry this suddenly got so, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 00:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7779421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosopher_King/pseuds/Philosopher_King
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'We have to stop doing this,' Loki said, quietly but firmly. ... Thor gently took Loki’s chin in his hand and lifted his face.  On it he found none of the fear that usually accompanied such words; no knitted brow, no anxiously drawn mouth.  Loki’s face was smooth and calm, and in his wide eyes and downturned mouth there was no fear, only sorrow. ... 'Why are you saying this now?' Thor asked, unable to keep a slight tremor from his voice.</p><p>"'Your coronation is in less than a decade,' Loki said gently.  'The eyes of the whole kingdom will be on you.  It will become harder and harder to hide what we are doing.' ...</p><p>"'We should choose a day,' Loki said abruptly.  'A day to be our last together; to say goodbye.  It could be your birthday, if you wish, or Thrimilci, or the Midsummer festival…'</p><p>"'I don't want it to be any day but that,' Thor interrupted.  'It should be some undistinguished day in autumn that we will remember as nothing other than our last together.'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winter

**Author's Note:**

> As indicated, this fic is part of my series ["Whatever is done from love"](http://archiveofourown.org/series/421000), which has turned into an actual series where you should probably have read the earlier ones to understand the later ones, rather than just a separate box for my Thorki fics. So before you read this, I do recommend that you read 1. [Desert Flowers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5729293), 2. [The Tree of Knowledge](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5729293), and 3. [The Paradox of Desire](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7117072): there are some oblique references to the first, and direct quotes from the other two.
> 
> I'm thinking I should invent a new category for conversation- and smut-heavy fics like this one (and most of my Thorki fics, really): not PWP ("Porn Without Plot" or "Plot? What Plot?") but PWMP ("Porn With Minimal Plot" or "Plot? Well, Maybe Plot").

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an allusion to a famous incident from Norse mythology; I have come up with an MCU-compliant interpretation of it, which I plan to write and post soon-ish, which is why I've made a reference to it here.

“We have to stop doing this,” Loki said, quietly but firmly.

Surprised, Thor looked down to where his brother’s head was resting on his shoulder.  Loki was not looking up at him; his face was still turned to the side, his cheek to Thor’s chest.  Wanting to see Loki’s expression, Thor sat up, forcing Loki to lift his head and sit up himself.  But he still would not look at Thor, instead sitting beside him facing straight ahead, his eyes lowered.

Thor sat forward onto his knees and turned toward Loki, who was still gazing down at his feet.  He gently took Loki’s chin in his hand and lifted his face.  On it he found none of the fear that usually accompanied such words; no knitted brow, no anxiously drawn mouth.  Loki’s face was smooth and calm, and in his wide eyes and downturned mouth there was no fear, only sorrow.

At the sight of Loki’s strange calm, Thor felt the stab of fear in his own stomach, felt his heart begin to speed.  “Why are you saying this now?” he asked, unable to keep a slight tremor from his voice.

“Your coronation is in only a decade,” Loki said gently.  “The eyes of the whole kingdom will be on you.  It will become harder and harder to hide what we are doing.  And what’s more—after you are crowned, you will be expected to take a wife.  Whoever she is, she will share your living quarters, share your bed; as queen, she will be close in your counsel.  Do you really expect that we could keep this a secret long from her?”

“Why not?” said Thor.  He relaxed a bit, reassured that this was no more than Loki’s habitual fears arising again; he could no doubt assuage them as he always had, and they would continue as before.  “Kings have kept lovers since the earliest days of Asgard.  They must have been able to keep secrets from their wives somehow.”

“On the contrary,” said Loki with a grim little laugh, “I don’t think it was secret at all.  How, after all, do we know of these kings’ lovers?  A king’s mistress is often an open secret, tolerated by the queen for reasons of her own: concern for the stability of the kingdom; a desire to hold onto power; indifference to a husband she did not choose.  But if the king’s lover is his own _brother…_ how could she possibly remain silent?”

Thor had to acknowledge that there was good sense in what Loki said.  Still, he protested: “But it is ten full years before I am crowned; and even then, I need not marry right away.  Perhaps we will need to stop then, but we still have years to spend together.  Let us enjoy them while we may.”

Loki shook his head slowly, his eyes solemn and sad.  “As your coronation approaches, the court will watch you more and more closely, as all the nobles try to figure out how to gain your favor, how to bend your ear to their wishes—and above all, how they might persuade you to marry their daughters.  They will become more attentive than ever to how and with whom you spend your time; they will watch for where your eyes are drawn at feasts and dances, when the young warriors and maids of the court gather and revel and flirt.  They will notice how often we are together, how often your eyes stray toward me, how seldom your gaze falls upon the fair ladies…”

Thor made a dismissive noise.  “And why should I not spend time with my brother?  Why should I not meet his eye across a room, to share a private joke?  They will suspect nothing, as they have not for the past seventy-five years.”

Loki shook his head more firmly.  “It will arouse suspicion if you are not searching for a wife, already as your coronation approaches and even more so after you are crowned.  They will begin looking for a secret lover.  We cannot give them anything to find, Thor.”

Thor felt his hope of persuading Loki out of his fears slipping away.  “But why now?” he asked again; he could hear the pathetic plaintiveness in his own voice.  “It is ten years away yet.  Can we not keep some of them for ourselves?”

Loki’s eyes reflected his own pain back with a profound understanding that verged on pity.  “No, we cannot.  We must teach ourselves _now_ to stay away, so that we will not make a mistake when the day is closer, when it truly matters.  We must wean ourselves away from each other, learning how to do with less and less, until at last we can act like brothers, and nothing more.”

Thor put his hand up to cup Loki’s cheek, to stroke his hair; it suddenly seemed desperately urgent to touch him as much as he could before it became impossible.  “Would it truly be easier to do that—to gradually wean ourselves away—than to… to tear the bandage off all at once, so to speak?” he asked, his voice low.  “Would it not be torment to keep allowing ourselves little tastes now and again, while holding back from taking as much as we truly want, and knowing that eventually we must starve ourselves of even those meager tastes?”

“I don’t know,” Loki replied.  “I thought… I thought it might be easier, for me at least.  But you and I are very different, I know.”  He allowed himself a small, sad smile.

Thor leaned forward to fold Loki into his arms.  “And that is why we are so perfect together,” he said fervently.  “Night to my day, moon to my sun…” he murmured, his lips against Loki’s forehead.

“Silver and gold,” Loki added, sounding slightly amused.

“I would wed you, if I could,” Thor said earnestly, pulling away to place his hands on Loki’s shoulders and look into his eyes.

Loki quickly tore his gaze away, first lowering his eyes and then turning his head, and brushed Thor’s hands off.  “Don’t fool yourself with impossible dreams,” he said sharply, before turning back to look at Thor again.  “A king needs legitimate heirs, which only a wife can provide.  And even if you were permitted a male consort, _we are_ _brothers—_ or had you forgotten?”

“I would change the law,” Thor said.  He realized that he was sounding feverish, desperate.  “After all, what is the reason for it?  What we do harms no one…”

“We’ve had this conversation before,” Loki snapped.  “The incest taboo runs deep in civilization.  Your subjects would never accept it.  They would blame you, blame _us,_ for every misfortune—every defeat, every disease, every bad harvest.  Even if we were lucky, and they did not rise up and murder us, you would surely be forced to abdicate in favor of some less troublesome cousin.  Thor, it _cannot be.”_ Loki’s voice cracked slightly; it sounded as if he was on the edge of tears.

“I know,” Thor said soothingly, taking Loki into his arms again.  “I only wish…”

“Wishes and horses, brother,” Loki muttered, his words muffled in Thor’s shoulder.

Thor pulled them back down to rest on the pillows, still cradling Loki in his arms, stroking his hair, pressing kisses to the top of his head.  He could scarcely imagine never being able to do this again; he thought with profound regret on the wasted years before they had started; he hoped, foolishly, that Loki did not truly mean what he was saying, that he would wake in the morning sheepishly apologizing for his needless alarm.

“We should choose a day,” Loki said abruptly.  “A day to be our last together; to say goodbye.  It could be your birthday, if you wish, or Thrimilci, or the Midsummer festival…”

“I don’t want it to be any day but that,” Thor interrupted.  “It should be some undistinguished day in autumn that we will remember as nothing other than our last together.”

Loki blew a puff of air through his nose in what might have been a laugh, or a snort.  “Why autumn?” he asked.  “Other than that it’s nearly a year away…”

“Autumn is a good time for endings,” Thor said softly, a touch singsong.  “And our first time together was in the spring.”

“Autumn, then,” Loki agreed.

“Between Winternights and Yule,” Thor added.

“Buying as much time as I’ll give you?” Loki asked.  His tone was dry, but his voice still sounded slightly wet.

“Yes,” Thor admitted freely.

He turned his face down, sought Loki’s mouth, kissed him deeply.  They drew each other in as close as they could, their bodies molded together, their legs entangled.  If Thor let himself think about parting, he could already feel himself starving for the feel of his brother’s skin against his, smooth and cool and comforting as silk on a summer day.  Thor drew his hands down Loki’s back, suddenly desperate to memorize the angles of his shoulder blades, the slope of his spine, the depth of the indents just inward from his hips, the perfect curve of his ass.  Loki was clinging to him, his fingers digging into Thor’s shoulders; he whimpered into their kiss, and his hips canted forward against Thor’s as both of them grew hard.  Thor gripped Loki’s ass more firmly, and Loki bucked against him harder, pressed so close that Thor felt the bead of moisture that had gathered on the tip of Loki’s cock smear along his abdomen.

Thor wanted to feel _everything,_ to taste everything.  Once they finally allowed their mouths to part, all but panting, Thor ran his lips along the edge of Loki’s jaw, then down the side of his neck.  Loki turned in his grasp to press his back against Thor’s front; Thor hooked his arms under Loki’s and let his hands commit to memory everything they could reach, from the angles where his collarbones met his shoulders to the slight swell of muscle in his chest to the number of his ribs, which became more palpable as he gasped in air.

Loki reached behind them to pull Thor’s hips closer, so that Thor’s hard length rested against the cleft of his ass.  But it wasn’t enough, not for either of them.  Thor wrapped one hand around Loki’s cock and slipped the other between them to feel for his hole, which was still open and well-slicked from their earlier lovemaking.  Thor pushed in slowly and buried himself deep, as Loki gasped out a quiet “Ah!” and clutched at Thor’s hip.  They barely moved; Thor only let his hips pulse forward occasionally, ever so gently, and he kept his grip on Loki’s cock slightly loose, stroking slowly, almost languidly, while the other hand roamed over his stomach, his chest, his throat.  Thor wanted most of all to feel the way their bodies were entwined, each wrapped in the other, and he wanted it to last as long as possible.

He pressed his lips against the back of Loki’s neck, mouthing soft kisses onto the knobs of his spine.  “I need you,” he murmured against the feather-soft hair at the base of Loki’s skull.

Loki’s answering laugh was cheerless and definitely sounded wet.  “No, you don’t,” he said, his voice harsh through the roughness of lust and of tears.  “You are stronger than that.”

“You think it is weakness to need another?” Thor asked, a gentle rebuke.

“Yes,” Loki answered, unabashed.

“Why?” Thor pressed, puzzled, stung.

“Because you can make promises only for yourself,” Loki said, sounding breathless as Thor’s hips thrust forward again.  “If you rely on another to be able to act, to move through the world, to meet your obligations… how can you promise anything?”

Thor frowned, unseen, into Loki’s hair.  “I did not say I needed you to be able to meet my obligations.”

“Well, then, you’ll be perfectly functional without me.  What do you need me for?”

Thor stopped moving altogether, and wrapped one arm tight around Loki’s chest.  “To be happy… to be whole.”

Loki froze for a moment, then turned his head as far as he could to meet Thor’s gaze with one eye.  “You _are_ whole, do you hear me?” he said, almost angrily.  “We both are,” he added, with far less conviction.  “And as for happiness, well—there are far more important goals in life, and more realistic ones, besides.”

Thor hummed, dissatisfied.  He wondered whether Loki believed what he was saying now, or if he still meant what he had quietly confessed years before, when he had thought Thor was sleeping and could not hear him: _“_ _You_ are _part of me, and something feels—missing, when you’re gone.”_ He strongly suspected that Loki believed he was more dependent on Thor than Thor was on him—that he loved Thor more than Thor loved him.

Thor wished he could tell Loki what he had heard him say, all those years ago.  It had sunk into his skin, into his very being.  He wished he could tell Loki that sometimes, especially when he was buried inside him like this, he felt (foolishly, idly, no doubt giving too much weight to metaphor) as if he was not just part of Loki, but—what was that term he had explained, once?  A _proper part:_ a part that is fully contained in, and less than, the whole.  At such times, he felt as if there was _more_ to Loki than there was to him—depths and vastnesses in his mind and heart that Thor could never hope to fathom; limitless possibilities stretching out before him, for creation or destruction.  And he found himself in the midst of that expanse, for better or worse, consuming more than his share of space in Loki’s mind and heart, shaping the direction of his possibilities like a boulder that changes the course of a mighty river… It was too much responsibility, to be part of Loki.  Much like being the future king of Asgard.  But at the same time it was thrilling, intoxicating, made him feel humble and proud and small and gigantic.

Riding the wave of these wild, feverish thoughts, Thor began speeding the tempo of his thrusts, still keeping himself buried deep, their bodies pressed close together, spurred on by Loki’s little whimpers and moans.  _He_ alone could draw those sounds from Loki; he alone could stir that implacable sea into storm.  And when he spilled inside, he imagined himself planting seeds in the earth—a god of fertility as well as of storm, bidding fruit to grow in the mountainous, forbidding terrain of his brother’s spirit.  Most would not bother to try to cultivate such terrain; but did they not know that the harshest, rockiest soil yields the finest wines?

Drunk on his release and his reverence (and, yes, on a not inconsiderable amount of wine), Thor found himself wishing that Loki were a woman, so that they could truly bring forth new life together: a child made from both of them, his strength and Loki’s spirit.  But no: that would truly make their transgression into a crime.  They were lucky that they could give birth only in the way that men shared with women: to thoughts, and words, and deeds.

But of course, Thor would never even think of trying to voice any of these strange, overwhelming feelings to his brother.  Loki would only laugh at him, and call him a terrible poet, and point out that he was never so imaginative outside the bedroom, and that flattery would get him nowhere (or perhaps everywhere).  And maybe he would believe for the space of a minute that Thor really did feel that way about him, but then all his doubts would return, and he would go on believing that their love was unequal.  _I should have said ‘I love you,’ not ‘I need you,’_ Thor reflected; that would have been less easily turned aside.  But he hardly dared to say that, either.  _“You’re my brother; you’re contractually obligated to love me,”_ Loki would quip, and laugh off Thor’s attempts to convince him that he loved him not merely because they were brothers, but because of who _he_ was, quick-witted and deep-thinking and unrepentantly different, slow to love but fierce and loyal when he did.

So Thor said nothing, and only kissed the back of Loki’s neck as his hips pulsed out the last aftershocks of his orgasm and he stroked Loki to his own completion just a few moments later.  “Oh, Norns, Thor,” Loki sighed just before his whole body tensed, then shuddered convulsively a few times, and then slowly relaxed while his shaky breathing slowed and steadied.  As usual, he cleaned them up with a lazy flick of his hand.

Thor kissed his way up the side of Loki’s neck to the corner of his jaw and then, with a soft chuckle, murmured beside his ear, “And you still want to stop doing this?”

Thor knew almost immediately that he should not have said that, because Loki froze again, then took a few trembling breaths and said with tightly contained anger, “Yes—because I want what’s best for you.  For both of us.”

“I understand,” Thor said, as soothingly as he could manage.

“Do you?” Loki retorted, starting to pull away from Thor’s grasp.

Thor tightened his grip around Loki’s chest—though not so much that Loki could not escape it if he really wanted to—and gently tugged him back.  Loki relented, and allowed Thor to pull him close, enveloping Loki’s slighter frame, his nose buried in the back of his head so that he could smell the fragrant oils with which Loki tried to tame his unruly hair, and underneath the lovelier scent of his skin.  He let that familiar scent lull him to sleep, trying not to think about a time when he would never be this close to his brother again.

He woke sometime during the night, feeling clammy and sticky with sweat.  He was puzzled for a moment—the world was still wrapped in the chill of late winter, and it had even been snowing lightly when they had retired after dinner—until he realized that he could feel the sweat only on the front of his body, so it must have been Loki’s, not his own; and that what had awakened him had been Loki’s whimpering and the occasional tremors that racked his body.  Thor raised himself on one arm so that he could look down at Loki’s face, and saw his eyes moving rapidly behind his closed eyelids, his jaw clenched, his thin, white lips tightly pressed together.  He was having a nightmare; and while he had been prone to them in his childhood, Thor knew that there was only one nightmare that could still make him tremble and whimper and sweat like this.

He shook Loki’s shoulder.  “Loki,” he said, as loudly as he dared.  “Loki, brother, wake up.  You’re dreaming.  It’s only a dream.”

Loki’s eyes opened, and a second later, his lips parted and he gasped in a breath as if he had been suffocating.  “Thor—I dreamed I was back there—” he stammered, his voice cracking.

“I know,” Thor said; he didn’t want Loki to have to say it aloud.  “I know.  But it’s over now.  You’re safe now.”

“No, I—I dreamed it was you.  You were holding me down, I was begging you to stop—you wouldn’t _listen,_ and then I couldn’t even—”  Loki broke off as he started gasping frantically, half sobbing, but seemingly unable to find enough air to weep properly.

Thor’s heart clenched.  He would never forget, never forgive himself for standing there, helpless, useless, while the dwarves took their penance from Loki with leather thong and awl.  As many times as his friends told him, and he told himself, and even Loki told him that there was nothing else he could have done, it still haunted him—the blood, his brother’s struggling and tears and muffled cries, and his own accursed helplessness.

“You’re safe now,” Thor said again—a promise, as much as an assertion.  He pulled Loki toward him, gently nudging him to turn around and face him.  Loki obeyed, and Thor rolled onto his back so that Loki could rest his head on his shoulder while his breathing calmed.

“You wouldn’t _listen,”_ Loki repeated raggedly through his tears, once the gasping had subsided into quiet sobs.

Thor felt another stab of guilt, as if it truly had been him who had pierced through Loki’s lips again and again, and threaded the cord through to bind them shut; when he dwelt on how he had been forced to watch and do nothing, it often seemed to him as if it might as well have been.  “It was only a dream,” he repeated, wishing he felt the confident reassurance he was trying to give.  “You know I would never hurt you.”

Loki sobbed out a wet laugh.  “Really?” he asked, sounding skeptical.

Thor was alarmed for a moment, but then figured Loki must be talking about the (usually minor) injuries Thor had inflicted on him while sparring over the years.  (He had broken Loki’s wrist once, and once, more worryingly, his collarbone; but then, Loki had also gashed Thor’s arm open while training with his throwing knives, and had given him a concussion with an ill-placed, or perhaps exceptionally well-placed, blast of seiðr, so Thor supposed they shared that guilt about equally.)  “I would never hurt you _intentionally,”_ he corrected with a wry smile.

“No, I suppose not,” Loki said thoughtfully.

Thor was still somewhat disturbed by the uncertainty in his voice.  He wrapped one arm around Loki’s shoulders and gave him a little squeeze, firm enough to reassure him of his presence and protection, but (he hoped) not so tight as to feel confining or constricting.  With the other hand he stroked Loki’s hair, which was still damp with his sweat just above his forehead and behind his neck, and starting to curl again as it dried.  Thor murmured soothingly to him as his ragged breathing smoothed out and his frantic heartbeat slowed—“It’s all right, you’re safe, I’m here, go back to sleep”—but he was careful not to make any hushing noises, in light of the substance of the dream.

 _“I love you,”_ he still wanted to say; but it still felt too dangerous, too fraught with possibilities for misunderstanding, especially considering the topic of their earlier conversation.  So he just thought it as vehemently as he could, hoping, perhaps, that if it was forceful enough, somehow the feeling would cross the gulf between them: _I love you, and not only because you are my brother.  I love you because you are clever and wise, beautiful and fearsome, brave and loyal; I love you because you are yourself and no one else.  I love you as brother and lover, as student and teacher, as friend and as husband, if only it were possible._

Eventually Loki fell asleep again with his head on Thor’s chest and Thor’s fingers combing gently through his hair.  He paused to twine one of the curly strands at Loki’s temple around his finger; they reminded him of the tendrils on a grapevine.

 _I love you,_ he thought.  _And I miss you already._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thrimilci is the Norse May Day; Winternights is Norse Halloween, minus all the spooky stuff (they do that on Walpurgis Night, April 30).
> 
> It's entirely [illwynd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/illwynd/pseuds/illwynd)'s fault that I felt the need to integrate the mouth-sewing myth into my fanfictional universe (and this fic in particular; it may become clearer when it's finished why it was relevant). You should definitely read her fic [Innocence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/817641/chapters/1547914), which gives a haunting, heartbreaking take on that and some other Loki-related myths. That fic kinda fucked me up, though, so be warned...
> 
> A couple little allusions to Nietzsche, just because I'm me (not important for understanding): one to _On the Genealogy of Morality,_ Second Essay, section 2, on the sovereign individual who is permitted to promise; and one (sort of) to _Twilight of the Idols,_ Part I, aphorism 12: "Man does _not_ strive for pleasure; only the Englishman does." Also a tiny nod to my unrequited Sif/Loki fic [Silver and Gold](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5047336/chapters/11606062). There's a bit of a joke there, because when Loki says "Silver and gold," you think he's silver and Thor is gold, right? Well, actually... look up the Myth of the Metals from Plato's _Republic_ and you'll get the joke.
> 
> Oh shit, I looked up the term "proper part" to make sure I was using it right, and it looks like it was invented for the purpose of making set theory consistent. (Most things are considered parts of themselves, but sets can't be elements of themselves, or you'd run into Russell's Paradox: Take the set of all sets that do not contain themselves. Does it contain itself, or not?) Why did Loki explain that term to Thor? Did he get interested in set theory in the early 20th century? How big a dork is he...?
> 
> Please, please, please leave comments, including criticisms! And let me know if Thor's weird rhapsodic thoughts were over the top... I just have a lot of feelings about Loki, OK? And I put them in Thor's head because he's there.


	2. Autumn

As it turned out, they did spend gradually less time together over the course of the next nine months.  They were both testing themselves, to see how long they could resist temptation.  A week at first, then two; longer, of necessity, when one or the other decided to take a journey to Vanaheim or Alfheim (to find a rare book, or better acquaint himself with different magical traditions, said Loki; to train with the greatest warriors of other realms, and reassure them of Asgard’s continued friendship and dedication to their protection, said Thor).

But the time they did spend together seemed weightier, more significant.  They clung to each other more tightly; they spent more time enjoying the simple intimacy of touch, whether this meant lying twined together with as much skin in contact as they could manage, or mapping all the contours of each other’s bodies with reverent hands.  Their lovemaking reached new extremes of both gentleness and ferocity; Loki found himself using seiðr to hastily heal or mask bruises, welts, and bite marks more often than usual (mostly on their necks and shoulders, but he did find some in more creative locations as well), while scolding Thor, and himself, for their carelessness.

The later months of the year saw them marking more and more _lasts._ Their last hunting trip together that involved far less actual hunting than kissing and touching and fucking, cocooned in their tent, or in the stream where they washed, or on furs under the open sky.  Their last desperate rut after sparring together on the training yards, still covered in sweat and dust, high on adrenaline and exertion, and half-angry with each other for the blows and indignities inflicted.  The last feast (the harvest feast, on the first night of autumn) at which they exchanged meaningful glances, both flushed with drink and dancing, to meet in a secluded corner and bring each other off quickly with hands and mouths, aroused by the danger of it as much as anything else.  (While sober, Loki had insisted that this had been stupid enough when they had done it in the past, and it was far too risky to do it again now, “old times’ sake” be damned; but after several generous glasses of wine, he was as receptive as ever to the looks Thor was throwing him across the room.)

When their agreed-upon last day arrived, halfway between Winternights and Yule, it had been three weeks since their most recent tryst.  They had even managed to spend a full six weeks apart at the end of summer, between Thor’s birthday and the harvest festival, thanks to a combination of absences in other realms and Loki’s insistence that it was too damned hot to want to touch anyone.

During the day, properly speaking, they were both too busy for anything other than lingering looks across the Council room, or the soldiers’ mess hall.  They supped with their parents in the evening, both on edge, anxiously hoping that they were acting as normal and cheerful as ever, betraying none of their nerves or their sorrow.  They took their leave together (which was nothing out of the ordinary, as their rooms were adjacent, and they had long been in the habit of retiring to drink and chat or play chess after dinner) and headed, without discussion, for Thor’s room.  That was the first place they had ever had sex, and for years the only place, at least within the palace.  As Loki became more familiar with the varieties of sexual experience, Thor no longer worried that he needed a refuge that would be free of any uncomfortable associations, so they did begin making use of Loki’s rooms sometimes, if they found themselves there when the urge struck.  But Thor’s room was still the first place they thought to go.

Thor entered first (the door was enchanted to recognize his fingerprints and open to him without a key), and Loki followed silently, closing the doors behind him—first the outer door to the hallway, and then the inner door that separated the small receiving room from the bedroom within, just to be cautious.  He leaned his back against the door for a moment, with a small sigh, trying to shake off his tension.

The first movements they made then were at odds: Loki began removing his clothing, starting with his leather overcoat, while Thor went to kiss him, cradling Loki’s face in his hands, pushing him back to lean against the door again.  Loki laughed nervously into the kiss and shook his coat the rest of the way down his arms so that it fell in a heap on the floor.  Briefly discomfited, Thor pulled away just as Loki leaned into the kiss and reached out to put his hands on Thor’s shoulders.  They both laughed then, with sadness as well as amusement: the weight of knowing that this was their last time had made them as jittery and awkward as first-time lovers.  Which was sweet, in a way, and called up a powerful nostalgia for their early days, and almost made them feel as if they had eighty years ahead of them again.  But it was not the way they wanted to remember their time together—not when they had had decades to learn each other’s bodies, and at their best could respond to each other as precisely and effortlessly as a pair of stage dancers.

They silently agreed that they were starting over.  Loki took the lead, reaching out to unlace Thor’s tunic; Thor did the same.  By now they were almost as familiar with each other’s clothing as with their own, and they quickly and efficiently had each other fully undressed.  Then they resumed kissing, deeply, hungrily, their hands roving over each other’s naked bodies.  Still leading, Loki began to walk Thor backward toward the bed, then pushed him onto his back on the mattress and climbed onto the bed crouching over him, always keeping their mouths joined.  Ever purposeful, Loki began crawling slowly toward the headboard, forcing Thor to move with him.

Once Thor’s head had reached the pillows, Loki began kissing his way down his body, blessing every inch of golden skin, every dip and curve of muscle.  He stopped to lick and suck at Thor’s nipples until the skin was hard and pebbled, and Thor arched his back with a groan as he reached to twine his fingers into Loki’s hair.  But then he was again moving relentlessly downward, dipping his tongue into Thor’s navel, making his hips twitch upward while Thor panted and whined.  Then Loki had reached his hips and kissed his way inward from the edges of his hipbones, one and then the other, torturously slowly.  At last, with a wicked grin, Loki put his lips to Thor’s prick—by now fully hard, and straining at nothing while Thor gasped out a pleading “Loki!”—and after languorously kissing the tip, he took it into his mouth, inch by slow inch, laving circles around it with his nimble tongue all the while.

When Thor began to buck into Loki’s mouth and his fingers tightened in Loki’s hair, he drew away with a reproving look—Thor groaned again, both at the loss of contact and at that look, so _very_ like his brother—delicately wiped a trace of spittle from the corner of his mouth, and crawled back up the bed to kneel over Thor’s hips.  “Should I—” Thor began, just as Loki reached behind himself and pulled out a smallish glass object, which he set down on its flat base beside the jar of salve that Thor now kept very reliably on his bedside table.  “Already taken care of,” Loki said huskily, with a knowing smile.  With one hand he guided Thor’s cock into himself, while the other braced himself against the bed; Thor sat up halfway and reached out to steady Loki’s hips.

Then Loki began rolling his hips, and Thor kept his hands there no longer to steady him, but to feel the confident grace and precision with which he moved.  He glanced up at Loki’s face, and saw that he was biting his lip lightly in concentration, and his eyes were hooded but not closed.  When Loki saw Thor looking at him, he grinned again—an impish baring of teeth, almost predatory—and snapped his hips faster, then unbent his knees ever so slightly to pull partway off Thor’s cock and sank down again.

Thor dropped back onto the pillows with an overwhelmed moan.  He found it powerfully arousing, the way that Loki was taking charge, asserting his authority.  Usually he let Thor take the lead, in deference, he said (when they spoke of it at all) to Thor’s longer experience.  When Loki did assume control in the bedroom, it was often because Thor asked him to, and he tended to approach it with an unserious air—as if it was some great joke that _he_ might hold power over Thor.  But here he was, leading with grace and self-assurance, and Thor wished (as he already wished for so many other reasons) that they had another eighty years—no, another four thousand years—so that he could see _this_ again, thousands of times again.

And yet it seemed fitting that Loki should be in control this last time, of all times.  It had, after all, been his idea to designate a last night together; he had a feel for ceremony and pageantry, and understood the importance of setting aside days of festival and solemnity.  And while Thor had been the one who had persuaded Loki that they should obey their desires and become lovers, it was Loki who had first recognized the desire for what it was, and taken the first hesitant step toward fulfilling it—with a kiss that might have been dismissed as a joke, had it not called out to an answering desire in Thor.  For most of their lives, it had seemed natural and obvious to them that Thor—the elder brother and the heir—should always lead: in their childhood games, their youthful adventures, their military expeditions as grown warriors.  But in this, Loki had been leading them, from beginning to end: he had seen the possibility, and had opened the door to it; and now that he had realized the impossibility of them, of their love, he was pulling the door shut again.  But oh, what an exit he would give them!

Loki was leaning back, his hands spread out on the bed behind him to support himself; his eyes were closed now, and Norns!, the expression on his face, that look of almost pained pleasure—Thor felt a fresh surge of heat in his belly from that alone.  And the way the dim torchlight played over his torso, outlining the lean muscles that flexed with his exertion… Thor sat up abruptly, splayed one hand over Loki’s stomach, pale and smooth and hard as marble, and with the other grasped his flushed, leaking cock.  Loki opened his eyes briefly in surprise—his dilated pupils made his eyes look darker, a deep emerald instead of icy crystal-green—but soon the wash of sensation forced them shut again; after only two quick strokes of Thor’s hand, Loki was coming with a muted cry, his seed spilling out over Thor’s hand and stomach and chest.  Loki’s hips jerked forward and his ass clenched around Thor’s prick as his orgasm pulsed through him, and Thor, too, was pushed to the edge.  He grasped Loki’s hips to hold him still as he thrust upward once, twice, and then he spilled in turn, still feeling the way Loki’s muscles periodically tightened around him in a counterpoint rhythm to the throbs of his own release.

Loki lifted himself gently off Thor’s cock, and paused for a moment, kneeling over him, his mischievously dancing eyes fixed on Thor’s face.  He was following Thor’s gaze, and had noticed that Thor was watching the trickle of his own spend slowly dripping down the inside of Loki’s thigh.  When Thor realized what he had been lasciviously fixated on, and that Loki knew it, his face flushed, but only partly with embarrassment; and Loki gave him that slightly predatory grin again, accompanied by a little self-satisfied chuckle.  Then Loki vanished the spend that was clinging to both of them and flopped down on the bed beside Thor, panting a little.

Thor hefted himself on his arms and climbed halfway over Loki, bending to pepper his face with kisses—his eyebrows, his cheekbones, his nose, everywhere but his mouth, until Loki looped his arms around Thor’s neck and pulled him in for a deep, sloppy kiss.  When they drew apart, still breathing hard, Thor looked down at Loki with a wolfish smile and asked, “My turn?”

“Your turn what?” Loki asked, looking blank; his head still seemed to be fuzzy from his (apparently quite intense) orgasm.  Then he blinked and his brow creased and, sounding mildly incredulous, he asked, “Your turn to be fucked?”

“Well, yes,” said Thor, laughing a little through his nose.

“Oh!” said Loki, still looking surprised.

“Why not?” Thor asked, mostly amused but slightly discomfited.  “We’ve done it many times before.  And if this is to be our last time, we should sample everything, should we not?”

“Of course,” Loki said, just a bit hurriedly.  “I just—I hadn’t thought you would—”

Thor was charmed by Loki’s disarmed stammering, and dipped down for another kiss, brief but tender.  “I want everything from you,” he said, his voice low and rough.  Loki frowned at him, and Thor added placatingly, “But only until tomorrow.”

“You haven’t prepared yourself, have you?” Loki asked, with a hint of a mock-reproving tone.

“No, I thought you would do it,” Thor replied.  He smiled as charmingly as he could manage.  “I like it when you do it.”

Loki raised his eyebrows and quirked his mouth, affecting a smug air.  “You do, do you?” he said archly.  “Hands and knees, then.”

Thor climbed back off his brother and obeyed.  He expected Loki to reach over to the bedside table for the jar of salve, but instead he moved directly behind Thor—and Thor understood why as soon as he felt the swipe of Loki’s tongue through his cleft, from taint to tailbone, just skimming over his anus.  “Ah!” he exclaimed softly, surprised by the sudden jolt of pleasure.

Loki lapped once directly over his hole, making him shudder slightly, then laughed and said, “You like it when I do it _this_ way.”

“True,” he agreed (an understatement, perhaps), “but I wouldn’t have asked you to…”  He trailed off with a sigh when he felt Loki’s tongue caressing his opening again, lightly at first, then starting to delve deeper.

Loki pulled away, breathing just a little heavily, and remarked, “Ah, but we’re sampling everything tonight, aren’t we?”

Before Thor could respond, Loki dove back in, and the work of his clever lips, tongue, and fingers soon had Thor feeling as if his whole body might melt into the bedding were it not for his prick, which was already hard again.  At last Loki deemed his work finished, and with a playful (but still mildly stinging) slap to Thor’s buttock, he commanded, “On your back.”

Thor complied; but then, when Loki knelt between his legs, stroking himself back to full hardness, and started looking for the salve, Thor grabbed him behind the thighs and yanked him forward, and at the same time slid his own body down the bed.

Loki had said in the past—on several occasions—that he loved it when Thor pulled him into a new position by his own strength alone, tossing him around as if he weighed nothing.  “Why is that?” Thor had asked, amused, the first time Loki had made this remark with a breathless laugh.

“Because it feels dangerous,” Loki had said with a wicked grin.

“Dangerous?” Thor had repeated, frowning.  Their activities were sometimes quite… vigorous, but he didn’t think they ever put themselves at risk of injury.

“Knowing that you could overpower me, bend me to your will,” Loki had explained with a teasing, sultry air.  “If both of us were unarmed,” he added with a playful smirk; he had beaten Thor often enough when they were sparring with staves or swords.

“A _seiðmaðr_ is never truly unarmed,” Thor had pointed out lightly, trying to push aside his feeling of unease at Loki’s words.  “Especially one who always has a dozen throwing knives at his command…”

“And if I were deprived of my magic,” Loki acknowledged.

“Well, in those extremely unlikely circumstances, I would never abuse my power,” Thor had said, still keeping his tone light and joking, masking how seriously he meant the words.

“Oh, of course not,” Loki had agreed airily, dismissive.  Thor worried that he was not being entirely sincere, and wondered whether the tension running through that undercurrent of doubt was excitement or fear.  Nonetheless, he continued to toss Loki around (as he had put it) when the urge struck him, and Loki had continued to tell him how arousing he found it.

On this occasion, however, Loki let out an undignified yelp and collapsed forward, catching himself with his arms on the pillows well above Thor’s head, his knees astride Thor’s chest.  “What are you doing?” he asked irritably.

“Sampling everything,” Thor replied, pulling Loki’s thighs just a little closer, until at last he could put his mouth around Loki’s cock.

“Mmph!” was Loki’s only response, as Thor quickly took his cock all the way into his mouth, swallowing around the tip and exhaling slowly through his nose, which was brushing the dark curls at the base.  While Loki had never learned how to do this (his gag reflex was too sensitive, and Thor told him not to push it), Thor, who had experienced it firsthand, had been determined to master the art.  So he had learned, with some trial and error—and with the aid of some technical advice from a woman at a brothel he favored, with whom he had developed a friendly rapport.  And without a doubt, the strangled, desperate noises Loki made when Thor took him all the way down—sounding almost as if he, not Thor, were the one with a cock down his throat!—were worth all the drool and indignity and the occasional near-gags.

Sure enough, Loki was now making those lovely strangled noises, interspersed with breathy moans of “Oh, fuck…”; just hearing it, Thor felt himself grow even harder, almost achingly so.  Thor grasped Loki’s hips to control his movements, sliding his cock out of his mouth to caress its length with his tongue, then guiding it back in to engulf the whole in wet warmth and let the muscles of his throat massage the head.  It was barely two minutes before Loki choked out, “Thor, if you still want me to fuck you, you’re going to have to stop…”

Thor pulled off with a chuckle and gave Loki’s buttock a light slap of his own.  Loki gave him a mock-offended look once he had climbed back down the bed far enough that Thor could see his face.  Thor spread his legs wider so that Loki could position himself between them.  He dipped his fingers into the jar of salve and slicked first his cock, then Thor’s.  Then he met Thor’s eyes, looking for his assurance that he was ready, and Thor gave him a small nod.  Loki unconsciously flicked his tongue over his lips in concentration or anticipation or both, in a way that Thor found almost unbearably alluring; and then he pressed in.

Thor sometimes wondered why they didn’t do it this way more often— _hadn’t_ done it more often, he mentally corrected himself, with a stab of regret.  He probably derived just as much physical enjoyment from being filled as Loki did, and there was a strange thrill in this reversal of the usual pattern, just as there was in seeing Loki assert control.  But Loki often seemed strangely reluctant, as if he thought it just as much of an inversion of the natural order of things to fuck Thor as to wield authority over him.

Yet Thor found it deeply sexy, and exciting, and even—to borrow Loki’s word— _dangerous,_ to cede control to his brother in this way.  And the look on Loki’s face as he fucked him: although they had done this many times before, the expression on his face still showed wonder and nervousness, pride and gratitude.  The wonder, perhaps, was that Thor was willing to make himself vulnerable in this way, to put himself in a position that most Asgardians still saw as one of weakness and submission.  And to submit to _Loki,_ of all people, whom most of Asgard mistrusted and disdained: the _seiðmaðr,_ the unmanly, cowardly, underhanded trickster.  That grateful, wondering look on Loki’s face said that he still felt as if Thor, his own brother, was giving him an unexpected gift by trusting him with his vulnerability, and he hardly knew what to do with this gift, with that power.

Thor found himself gazing up at Loki with a strange mix of adoration and exasperation.  _I would submit myself to no one_ but _you,_ he thought; _I would make myself vulnerable to you before anyone else.  I trust you more than you trust yourself.  Can’t you trust_ me _?_

He raised his hand to comb his fingers through Loki’s hair; it was escaping the hold of the oils and spells with which he tried to straighten and contain it, falling in loose, sweat-damp waves to cover his flushed face.  Thor wrapped his legs around Loki’s waist, his heels nudging the small of his back, to pull him in closer, draw him deeper, and Loki closed his eyes with an overwhelmed sigh, half a whimper, as the pumping of his hips grew quicker and more forceful.  Thor drew Loki in closer still, using both his heels at his back and a hand behind his neck, and kissed the sweat from his temple, his eyelids, his neck, before searching out his lips.  He moaned into Loki’s mouth as he felt him hit the bundle of nerves that kindled a fresh flame in his abdomen, and made his cock ache for more friction than it found between their bellies.  Loki pulled his mouth away to drink in air as he began to thrust harder and faster still; Thor reached between them and began to stroke himself in time with Loki’s thrusts.  He spilled just moments before Loki’s whole body tensed above him, and he felt the pulses of wet warmth that told him that Loki had found his release as well.

Loki’s trembling arms half-collapsed with the intensity of sensation, and he supported himself shakily on his elbows, his forehead touching Thor’s and his mouth open to let in his gasping breaths as the last of his orgasm shuddered through him.  Thor could not resist mouthing lightly at those invitingly parted lips; Loki opened his eyes to look at him, giggled breathlessly as though Thor’s lips tickled him, and returned the soft kiss, pressing his lips gently against Thor’s, just the tip of his tongue licking in to taste the inside of his mouth.  Thor clasped the back of his neck again and pulled him in to deepen the kiss, and Loki sagged against him further, letting more of his weight be supported by Thor’s body.  Thor didn’t mind: Loki’s solid weight against him was incontrovertible evidence of his _presence,_ here, now, regardless of what might come on the morrow.  This was real, this had been real.

Pressed as close as they were, Thor could not but feel the shudder that suddenly ran through Loki’s body again.  A last delayed aftershock?  But then a sobbing noise escaped Loki’s throat; the sound was muffled against Thor’s mouth, but he felt it.  And then he felt the wetness on his face.  He put a hand to Loki’s cheek and gently drew back to look at him, saw his overbright eyes and the tears smeared across his cheeks.  “Loki—” he began; then Loki abruptly pulled away and rolled off to lie on his back next to Thor.  Thor propped himself on his elbow to look down at him, concerned, and Loki turned his face away.

“Shit,” he rasped, sniffing and swiping a hand over his eyes.  He took a couple of deep breaths.  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice sounding clogged, after he had brought his tears under control.  “I wanted this night to be—joyful.  To leave us with a last happy memory.”  He turned his face back toward Thor, and gave him a shaky smile whose brightness was shadowed by his reddened eyes and tear-streaked face.  “The best-laid plans, eh?” he said with brittle cheerfulness.

Thor didn’t entirely know what he meant by that, but he didn’t ask.  Instead he searched Loki’s eyes.  They had never looked so open, and his heartbreak shone plainly through them, a mirror of Thor’s own.  “It doesn’t have to be the last,” he said gently; he meant it to be comforting, but it came out as the plea it truly was.  “We can be careful and discreet, just a little while longer…”

Loki covered his face with his hands, and from between his palms he gritted out, “Don’t.”  He scrubbed his hands down his face, and when Thor could see his eyes again they flashed with anger.  He took another deep, shaky breath, as if he feared he might start weeping again.  “Don’t make this harder,” he said, his throat sounding constricted.  “Can’t you see it’s hard enough already?”

“But you don’t have to do it,” Thor pressed.

“Yes, I do,” Loki said, biting each word off sharply.  “I have to do it because _you_ won’t.  When will you learn that you can’t always have everything you want?”

“Loki, I—” Thor began, but Loki cut him off.

“You’ve never _had_ to learn it, have you?” Loki said icily, with a bitterness in his voice that Thor had not heard in years.  It would have been easier to bear if he had been shouting, but instead his voice was low and painfully measured, and the bitterness seemed more concentrated for how tightly it was contained.

Thor didn’t know what he could say to that; he knew he would only anger Loki further if he attempted to argue, so he said nothing.  He had suffered disappointments in his life, to be sure, but he knew that he was favored by fortune in ways that Loki was not: he was the elder son, the heir to the throne; and his talents, unlike Loki’s, had always been the kind that Asgardians honored and applauded.  He realized, too, that Loki had spent centuries nursing a desire that he thought would never be returned, while Thor had no sooner recognized the desire than it was fulfilled.

“It’s my fault,” Loki muttered under his breath.  “I should never have…”  He trailed off with what sounded like a low growl in his throat.

Thor knew what Loki was going to say, and the pain of knowing it hurt so deeply in his chest that it winded him.  But his wounded pride wanted to hear Loki say it.  “You should never have what?” he asked coldly.

The anger fled from Loki’s face, replaced by sudden remorse.  He closed his eyes and shook his head, looking pained.  “Please forget it.  I’m sorry.  Just… please don’t ask me again to reconsider.  This hurts me, too—more than you know.  You must believe that I wouldn’t have made this decision if I hadn’t thought it through completely, if I weren’t absolutely _certain_ it was necessary.”

Thor’s heart still ached with the knowledge of what Loki had almost said: _“I should never have allowed this to start.  I should never have agreed to become lovers.”_ Loki had said the same thing on their first night together: _“I’ve made a terrible mistake… I should not have kissed you, last night.  I should not have let my desires come to light.”_ It had hurt enough to hear after one evening, but after so many decades, the better part of a century… Thor felt as if his ribcage had been crushed, felt sick to his stomach.  _He cannot truly mean it,_ he consoled himself.  _He spoke impulsively, in anger; surely he did not mean it._

Thor decided it was best to let it go; he did not wish to poison the memory of their last night with recriminations.  _Their last night:_ the reality of it hit him like another blow to the chest.  The only reason it had been Loki who first began to weep, not he, was that he had not truly believed it was the last.  He had believed all this time, without realizing it, that Loki must change his mind.  They loved each other truly, did they not?  And nothing could stand in the way of true love, surely nothing so paltry as practicality…

 _It is not mere practicality,_ Thor reasoned.  _He fears for our lives._ Another, more sinister voice in his head returned: _I would gladly die for the sake of love; would he not?_ His reason responded, _Perhaps he would be willing to risk his own life, but not mine.  And besides—we will still_ love, _even if we are not lovers._

“I know,” Thor said quietly, at last.  “I believe you.”

Loki opened his eyes and looked at him.  There was still doubt in his face, but after a pause, he closed his eyes again, breathed deeply through his nose, and nodded.  “I’m sorry,” he said again, trying to wipe the last of the dried tears from his face.  “I’m sure you’re just panting to make love to me now…” he quipped with a wry, rueful quirk to his mouth.

“Always,” Thor assured him—a jest on the surface only.  He leaned over, slid one hand behind Loki’s neck, and kissed him, slowly, gently.  Loki breathed in raggedly through his nose and returned the kiss.  Thor moved to kiss his tear-stained cheeks, tasting the sharpness of the salt there.  There it was, the proof: _“This hurts me, too—more than you know.”_

“We’re sticky,” Loki grumbled from beneath Thor’s caressing lips.

“I expect we’ll only get stickier,” Thor pointed out, trying for humor.

“I like to start with a clean slate,” said Loki, and then the drying spend that was clinging to Thor’s legs and both of their bellies, as well as the dried tears on Loki’s face, were gone.

They kissed for a long time, slow and languorous and thorough, as though they had all the time in the world.  They kissed each other’s faces and necks and shoulders and chests, sometimes stopping to nibble and suck, to leave marks that they would keep as mementoes for the next few days (only in places that they could cover with clothing, of course), as if it could allow them to draw this night out a little longer.  Thor kissed his way slowly and painstakingly down Loki’s body, as Loki had done earlier with his; but he continued all the way down Loki’s seemingly endless legs, lavishing his admiration even on his shapely ankles (though he stopped before he reached the soles of his ticklish feet; he knew that would earn him only a reflexive kick in the nose).

Loki sat up and reached down to tug Thor back toward him, to kiss his lips again.  They were both starting to grow hard once more, to thrust their hips lightly against each other.  They did not hurry it; they kept kissing for a while longer, until their lips were swollen and bruised and tingling, and then they simply lay in each other’s arms, their faces buried in each other’s necks, drinking in each other’s scent as if they had been wandering the desert for years and it was the only fresh water in the world.

Finally Thor’s hardened cock began to ache, and he reached down to stroke it, once.  Loki felt his hand move and saw where it went; he reached to grab Thor’s wrist and whispered, “In me.”

Thor reached for Loki’s entrance.  He thought it was probably still open enough, since he had fucked Loki not long before, but just to be sure, he started to ask, “Are you—?”

“Yes, now,” Loki said breathlessly.

Thor guided his cock to Loki’s hole, but he felt some resistance when he tried to push in.  “Are you sure you’re ready?” he asked.  “We can—”

Loki nodded.  He took a deep breath, and Thor felt his muscles relax enough to let him in, but the crease in his brow still looked slightly pained.  “Are you all right?” Thor asked, his voice low.

Loki laughed with some amusement, but more sadness.  “If you’re asking whether my ass is all right, then yes,” he said dryly.

Thor returned the regretful laugh: if someone had asked him at this moment whether he was all right, he, too, would probably have to say no.

He began, slowly, to move.  Loki’s brow creased again, and he groaned with what might have been either pleasure or pain, and tilted his head back as if offering his throat.  Thor leaned in to kiss it, and Loki reached up to grasp Thor’s shoulders, then raked his nails down his back and up again—more mementoes that no one but them would ever see.

Thor fucked harder, deeper, once again imagining himself becoming no more than a part of his brother, wholly encompassed in his more expansive being.  He could still hear Loki’s hushed whisper: _“Because you_ are _part of me, and something feels—missing, when you’re gone.”_ But what if he could simply fold his own being into Loki’s?  Then they would never feel the lack.  Unbidden, a memory from more than a century before sprang into Thor’s mind:

_“Dare I ask what you’re reading about?”  Thor had wandered out to the table on their shared balcony, where Loki was sitting, bent over a battered-looking book—no doubt another one brought back from Midgard.  It was promising that Loki was out on the balcony rather than holed up in his own room, as usual; and Thor had brought out a bottle of mead and two goblets as a hopeful invitation, in case Loki might be willing, for once, to talk._

_Loki looked up, startled; he seemed surprised that Thor had bothered to ask.  “Part–whole priority relations,” he answered cautiously._

_“I beg your pardon?” Thor laughed.  He set the bottle and goblets down on the table and seated himself across from Loki._

_Loki hesitated, apparently debating whether he wanted to attempt to explain.  “The question is whether wholes depend on their parts for their being, or whether the parts are dependent on the whole.”_

_“So, which is it?” Thor asked jovially, pouring mead into both goblets and pushing one toward his brother._

_Loki pursed his lips in annoyance.  “It’s complicated.”_

_“It always is, with you,” Thor teased._

Thor shook off the memory, wanting to immerse himself in this all-too-fleeting present moment: the tight grip of Loki’s body around him; the sweet sting of the marks his nails and teeth had left on Thor’s flesh; the steely clasp of his thighs around Thor’s sides; the lovely sounds he made—the soft grunts when their bodies slapped together, the hissing intakes of breath, the half-moaned sighs when Thor found that pleasurable spot inside him.  He was whispering something now, and Thor leaned closer to hear it: “Brother, brother…”

Perverse as it was, that word had the power to light all of Thor’s veins on fire, and Loki knew it; he had teased Thor often enough about it, whereupon Thor would growl back, “Ah, but you love it, too,” and Loki would grin and would not deny it.  Even now the word stoked the flame of his lust, and he needed to hear it closer, needed his brother closer.  He hooked his arms under Loki’s thighs, trusting in the strength of their grip, and slid his hands under Loki’s buttocks to support him from beneath, then raised himself onto his knees, pulling Loki in against his body.  Relying mostly on his own strength, the way Loki had said he so loved, he worked Loki up and down on his cock; for all his wiry strength, he was astonishingly light.  Loki clung to him tightly, his arms embracing Thor’s shoulders, his powerful legs wrapped around Thor’s waist and helping to propel the movement of his body.  He pressed his lips against Thor’s neck and kept whispering “Thor, brother,” and between the heat of his mouth and of the words themselves, Thor felt as if they might leave a brand on his skin; he almost wished they could.

As he felt himself drawing close to the brink, he fell forward again, quickly moving one hand up Loki’s back to brace his neck as he hit the bed.  With the other hand he lifted Loki’s thigh to let him hook his knee over Thor’s shoulder, so that he could drive his last thrusts deeper, ever deeper.  “Brother, brother,” Loki was still moaning, his tone near pleading—almost like the prayers that the mortals of Earth used to send up to him—his fingers digging into Thor’s shoulders hard enough to bruise.  “Touch yourself,” Thor whispered hoarsely.  “Come for me.  Come _with_ me.”

Loki obeyed; his seed spilled out over his stomach just as Thor felt his own release overtake him, and they let out groaning sighs almost in unison.  Thor collapsed over Loki, then carefully turned them both onto their sides so that he wouldn’t crush his brother with his greater weight while he indulged the desire to rest inside him for just a little longer.  Loki kept his arms wrapped around him and began stroking his hair gently, as if to comfort him.  When they shifted slightly and Thor’s softened cock at last slipped out, he felt—foolishly, he knew—as if it was a terrible loss.

Thor turned onto his back and tugged Loki with him to pillow his head on Thor’s chest, just below his shoulder, which was the way they often fell asleep (at least until Loki kicked him awake to tell him he had been snoring just as thunderously as might be expected, and should turn onto his side).  They were both weary, and knew they should sleep, but dreaded missing any of these last precious hours.  So they dozed lightly in each other’s arms, waking every once in a while to kiss sleepily or run their hands over each other’s skin—one last chance to cement it in their memories.

At some point they had turned so that they were lying on their sides, Thor behind Loki with his arms around his younger brother, as was their habit.  Thor woke from some vaguely anxious dream whose content immediately fled his mind, and whispered his brother’s name quietly enough that if he were asleep, the sound would not wake him.

“Mmm?” Loki replied; he must have been awake or in a very shallow slumber.

“Would you mind… switching places?  So that you’re behind me.”

After a pause, Loki chuckled and asked dryly, “You want me to hold you, Thor?”

“Yes.  What of it?” Thor retorted mock-defensively.

“Nothing,” Loki said lightly.  He turned over, then nudged at Thor’s ribs to prompt him to do the same.  He tucked himself behind Thor, one arm draped over his shoulder and lying under his neck, the other wrapped around Thor’s other shoulder.  Thor grabbed his hand and held it close to his chest.  He felt curiously safe with his little brother wrapped around him, as if to protect him.  Folded into Loki, encompassed by him, contained in him.

Loki woke early; they had left the thick curtains over the window slightly open so that the morning light would wake him, as they always did when he spent the night in Thor’s room, so that he could go out the balcony to his own room before anyone was awake to see him emerge from Thor’s chambers.  He had always been more sensitive to light than Thor, and sometimes he crept out of bed quietly and let his brother sleep.  Not this morning, though: it would have been cruel to go without saying goodbye.

He shook Thor’s shoulder lightly and whispered his name, and Thor was awake almost instantly: his dread of this moment had kept him from falling into a deeper sleep.

“I have to go,” Loki said quietly.

Thor closed his eyes to brace himself against the pain that struck his heart like a lance; he could feel his face crumple with it.  He turned to face Loki and reached out a hand to stroke through his hair, then brought it to rest behind his neck.  “One more kiss,” he begged.  His voice was hoarse, and not only with sleep.

“One more kiss,” Loki agreed.  Thor pulled him in close and they kissed as fiercely as they ever had and yet as gently, with as much hunger as they had felt the very first time.  Thor knew now that it would never abate.

Loki pulled away reluctantly, and Thor did not let his hand leave Loki’s neck until he was too far to reach.  He watched silently as Loki pulled on his tunic and trousers from the previous night, and then, without another look back at Thor, disappeared through the outer door to the balcony.

As soon as he was gone, Thor gave in to the tears that he had been holding back.  He wept for a long time, and let himself drift into a dreamless sleep when his tears were spent.  He was not sure how long he spent between sleeping and waking only to weep until he was weary enough to sleep again.

After some hours, he heard a knock at his door; the angle of the light from the window told him it was afternoon.  He ignored it, hoping that whoever it was would go away.  Then he heard Loki’s voice, and it stabbed into his heart all over again: “Thor, are you there?”

“Yes,” Thor called back listlessly.  “What is it?”

“Your friends are asking after you.  As are Mother and Father.”  Loki’s voice was strangely calm and even; it stung Thor to hear.

“Tell them I am unwell,” Thor said dully.  It was not a lie.

He heard a frustrated sigh from the other side of the door.  “Will you let me in?” Loki asked.

“No,” Thor replied shortly.  He could not bear to see Loki now—or else could not refrain from pulling him into his arms again.

“Very well,” said Loki.  Then Thor heard his voice again, no longer muffled by the door, and seeming to come from right beside him.  He must have used a projection spell for just his voice.  Thor was glad he had not sent an image as well; hearing his voice so close was hard enough.

“You can’t do this,” Loki’s seemingly disembodied voice warned him.  “We can’t let on that anything is amiss; we must act as if nothing has changed.”

“I know,” Thor said sharply.  “And I will, tomorrow and every day after.  I will be as bright and cheerful as I ever have been.  Just… let me have today.”

There was a pause, and then Loki said, “All right.  I will tell them that you are feeling ill, but you do not think it is serious.”

 _No, not serious at all._ “Thank you,” Thor managed.

He heard Loki draw in a breath from close by, where his projected voice was centered, as if he was thinking of saying something else; but then he let the breath out again, and was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, over 7,000 words of almost pure smut, with some feelings thrown in. Plus the obligatory weird philosophy reference. What was Loki reading, you ask? I'm not sure, but I expect it was some neo-Kantian or maybe British Idealist stuff (he was in London in the 1880s, after all). I thought about having him explain part-whole priority in a Kantian framework, because in my head there was a way to get feelings out of that, but I realized it was getting way too complicated and the feelings were going to get lost in the bizarre technical details.
> 
> Sorry the sex wasn't all that creative... some of it is lack of experience on my part, and some of it is that I suspect they wouldn't want to do anything particularly weird and kinky on their last night, though they might have experimented a bit during their many years together. Also, they probably don't know what BDSM is at this point. That may change at some later date...
> 
> Please leave comments, including constructive criticism!


	3. Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After 10 years apart, just before Thor's coronation, Loki's resolve is tested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got really, really dark, largely because I decided to do it from Loki's POV and that meant pulling out some of the things that had just been subtext in the previous chapters and making them explicit. Maybe too explicit; I'm a bit concerned that I'm bashing my readers over the head with the Themes. It's also pretty heavy on the telling and light on the showing, probably because it mostly takes place in Loki's head, over a period of 10 years. Anyway, please do take note of the tags I've added, and I'm sorry if I lose anyone because of that...
> 
> Before you all kill me, I am planning to give this series a happy ending. And in fact, things get a little more hopeful in just the next installment of the series!

After that night, seeing Thor almost every day and acting as if nothing had changed was one of the hardest things Loki had ever had to do.  And as if it hadn’t been quite hard enough already, Thor kept throwing him those _looks,_ as if he were a dog that had been struck by his master.  _His master—there’s a laugh.  “Stop looking at me like that,”_ Loki wanted to hiss every time Thor did it.  _“Someone will see it, and wonder._ I _don’t want to see it.”_  But that was a fight he didn’t want to have, not even in private.  So he made a point of turning away as soon as he saw Thor’s mournful eyes fixed on him.  _Operant conditioning,_ he thought.  _If he gets no response, maybe he’ll stop._

Avoidance seemed to be the best strategy, in general.  Loki could not suddenly withdraw from the life of the court, or stop spending time with Thor and his friends altogether; but he made excuses gradually more often.  He seldom visited the training yards unless expressly invited (and then only when he had been invited enough times that to refuse again would be rude), or else went in the evening, when Thor was usually otherwise occupied.  He buried himself in the studies that his father had tasked him with, to prepare for his future role as first advisor to Asgard’s new king.  He secluded himself in the library or in his own rooms to pore over piles of dusty legal tomes: Asgardian law, the laws of the realms with which Asgard had diplomatic relations (Vanaheim, Alfheim, and Nidavellir—though Loki had been assured that he would not be responsible for treating with the dwarves), and the treaties Asgard held with all the realms (save Midgard, of course, which was not yet in a position to make treaties as a realm).

Thor, fortunately, was taken away often enough by his own preparations to assume the throne; he began paying visits to different parts of Asgard to speak with its people, of all classes and occupations, to hear firsthand of their struggles and concerns, and gain a better understanding of the intricate functioning of the realm.  This was a fortunate division of labor, Loki thought: Thor had no patience for memorizing theoretical details, but he was endlessly charismatic, beloved of all people high and low, with the properly magnanimous air of _noblesse oblige._ Loki, on the other hand… there had been a time when, enamored of the ideas he had brought back from Midgard, of universal education and aristocracies of merit rather than birth, he might have tried to rouse them to revolt (to see what would happen, as much as anything else); these days, he would probably simply lose his temper.

When Thor returned to the palace from his sojourns in the countryside, Loki often found himself with a burning desire to visit Vanaheim or Alfheim, suddenly _fascinated_ with their history and culture as well as their magical knowledge.  He did not attempt one of his periodic visits to Midgard, however; he felt too dispirited and weary to sustain the elaborate performance that would enable him to blend in.

In fact, Loki felt too dispirited and weary for many things.  He did not even have to lie when he pled exhaustion to avoid a sparring match or a hunting trip with Thor and his friends.  He found himself sleeping more than had been his wont.  He retired early after supper, unable to bear much casual conversation with Thor, even in the company of their parents; he struggled to find the motivation to rouse himself from bed in the morning; he had difficulty concentrating on the books he was reading, even on subjects that used to captivate him, and all too often found himself staring vacantly at a page, his eyes going over the same words again and again without taking in their meaning, until he decided that he had best take a nap, or else simply fell asleep with his head on the arm still holding the book open.

He thought he might be losing weight, because he was missing meals increasingly often, whether because he slept through them, or did not feel hungry, or was hungry in sort of a vague way but could not summon the energy to go and do anything about it.  Sometimes he tried to eat, but found that the sight or the smell of the food nauseated him, that it stuck in his throat and made him feel as if he might gag.  Food had lost its savor; cheerful music disgusted him, and mournful music made him want to weep; the sounds of voices and laughter grated on his nerves; the whole world seemed drained of color, sometimes as if it lay in permanent twilight, sometimes as if it was drenched in blinding light.

All this was quite familiar, of course: it was much the way he had been feeling just before he and Thor had become lovers.  It had been growing gradually worse for years, but then during those strange enchanted decades, the progression had stopped, even reversed itself; but now it was resuming where it had left off.  It was as if he had been sliding down an inclined plane into—into what, he was not sure; nothing, perhaps—and then Thor had caught him on a ledge, and pulled him up; but now he had let go of his handhold, and was falling again, ever faster.  Or perhaps it was that he had been living in the deepening shadow that Thor cast as his sun grew ever brighter, until one day that sun had turned its face upon him, and he had spent a few blessed years basking in its light; but then he had realized that his place was not in the sunlight, and had crept back into his shadow, now darker than ever.

And what did that matter to the sun?  Of course it loved those whom it blessed with its light— _“You great star, what would your happiness be had you not those for whom you shine?”—_ but the sun was indifferent as to which particular individuals enjoyed these blessings.  Thor would realize that, of course; he would find another lover to worship him, or content himself with the adoration of the whole realm.  And then he would stop looking at Loki as if _he_ was the one being starved of something vital, when Loki was the one who had lost the sun.  _I didn’t lose it,_ he reminded himself; _I gave it up._

Of course, Thor still expected him to change his mind.  That was the purpose of all those kicked-dog looks: he was trying to wear down Loki’s resolve with pity, or guilt.  Loki had known, even before he had told Thor that they had to end it, that Thor would not believe he was in earnest.  He would try to argue Loki out of his airtight reasons, or simply would not listen to them; he would take advantage of moments of weakness.

It was all too familiar to Loki, who had spent his whole life giving Thor very sensible counsels of caution and not only watching Thor ignore them, but being dragged into his misadventures out of a sense of obligation to minimize the damage.  He had _warned_ Thor that they were walking into an ambush in Nornheim, but of course Thor always knew better.  He was lucky that Loki had been there to distract their attackers with some well-timed explosions, and then use the (strategically amplified) smoke to conceal them as they escaped.

 _He never listens; why would he listen to me now, about this?_ That must have been why Loki had had the nightmare that night—the night he had spent months steeling himself for, when he finally told Thor they had to stop—though he had not dreamed of that awful day in almost a century.  He had dreaded that conversation, knowing that Thor would not listen to his reasons, would plead and cajole and tempt him to change his mind.  And somehow, his sleeping mind had made an image for itself of that fear, or rather the knowledge, that Thor would not listen: Thor holding him down, ignoring his frantic pleas to stop, and _making sure_ he could not speak, with blade and blood and cord.

The dream had been coming to him with frightening regularity, every three months or so.  He had moved his bed away from the wall that separated his room from Thor’s, so that Thor would not hear him as he whimpered and thrashed, would not come to wake him and try to comfort him, as he sometimes had in the century or so after it had happened, when Loki had dreamed of it far more frequently.  No, that was the last thing he needed: Thor waking him from the dream of Thor silencing him, refusing to listen, only to climb into his bed and try to offer a comfort that Loki had already rejected.  Ignoring his pleas, his denials; refusing to listen.

And yet in a strange way it excited him: the idea that Thor could overpower him, take him against his will… or in any case, _without regard for_ his will.  When he imagined it, he felt a strange jolt of adrenaline, a heat in his belly that was not purely fear.  He dreamed of that, too, and woke soaked with sweat, but also hard and aching.  Sometimes the dreams merged, and after holding him down to sew his mouth shut, so that he could neither refuse nor protest, Thor held him down to slake his lust.  Or sometimes it was the other way around.

Loki knew it was foolish and absurd to entertain these fears—or were they fantasies?—when Thor had been nothing but respectful and considerate since the beginning of their affair: _“I would never abuse my power”; “Go only as far as you’re ready to go—I’ll never push you farther”; “If you do not wish me to, I will not touch you again.”_ Thor was hot-headed and hot-blooded, yes, and not accustomed to being denied what he wanted.  But he was also deeply _good,_ in a way Loki knew all too well that he himself was not.  Thor was kind and magnanimous, full of endless goodwill, ready to forgive and forget slights against him (at least once the matter had been properly resolved on the sparring courts).  Loki, on the other hand, was cynical and misanthropic, stingy with his affection, spiteful and vindictive; he never forgot an insult, and could hold poisonous grudges for centuries; he took his revenge not in open combat, but subtly, through rumors and insinuations and bureaucratic manipulations that could never be traced back to him.  No, Loki was not good; he would never be good.

And perhaps that was why Loki almost wished that Thor would take advantage of him—no, would _rape_ him: Loki forced himself to confront the word, though it was only in his own thoughts; to be honest with himself about his vile imaginings.  He wanted Thor to show that he was no better than Loki was.  Worse, even.  And the _leverage_ it would give him: he need not even use the threat of revealing it; Thor’s guilt alone, once he realized what he had done, would give Loki virtual carte blanche in matters of diplomatic policy, and ensure that Thor _did_ in fact listen to all of his advice, for centuries to come.

Or perhaps, Loki mused (for he spent hours, sometimes, wandering the twisted labyrinth of his own mind), he wanted it as a justification of the resentment he felt toward Thor, which sharpened on his lowest days into a burning hatred that in its ardor could rival only his worshipful love.  It galled him to think that it was only envy that fueled the hatred: envy of Thor’s effortless goodness, of the admiration and love he received from all of Asgard.  But what if it was because Loki sensed something in Thor that no one else could: a darkness, a danger, an _evil_ hiding under that glow of goodness?  _Like calls to like,_ he reasoned; perhaps it took one whose eyes were accustomed to darkness.

Loki recognized, of course, that this desire—if it could rightly be called that—was nonsensical.  It was not, he determined upon careful introspection, simply the desire to refuse Thor when he in fact wanted him, and then for Thor to ignore his merely feigned rebuffs and act in accordance with his actual inclinations.  No: what he wanted, in this strange dark way, was for Thor to take him when he _truly_ did not want it, to ignore his protests and struggles and overpower him with sheer strength and the threat of violence.  But how could he want something that he did not want?

From a certain very detached, theoretical standpoint, it was no more puzzling than making a resolution to do something later that one knew would seem unpleasant at the time, such as waking up early in the morning for a sparring session or a Council meeting.  But something deep in his gut knew the analogy was false, and was haunted and disgusted and terrified by his own craving.  Disgusted at himself when he brought himself off after one of those terrible dreams, still imagining Thor’s powerful hands holding him down, clenching his jaw to mimic the feeling of his mouth being sewn shut.  He could even feel the phantom pain in his lips where the awl had pierced through, or where he had tugged at the cord while trying, unthinking, to gasp in air, to plead, to scream.

There was still a faint vertical scar on his upper lip as evidence of his struggle.  Often, Loki traced that scar with his finger while studying himself in the mirror, dwelling masochistically on how sick, how contemptible he was; sometimes he traced it half-consciously at odd times during the day, when he drifted into reveries on his own depravity.  Once he caught himself doing it when Thor was staring straight at him across the breakfast table, looking guilty and miserable.  Loki immediately put his hand down and looked away, feeling exposed, seized by the irrational fear that somehow Thor could read his thoughts, and see him for the monster he was.  Or (perhaps worse?) that he would give Loki what he wanted.  A punishment for wanting it; a punishment for the darkness in him.  _Perhaps_ that _is why I want it,_ Loki reflected.

When he glanced back across the table, Thor was giving him that kicked-dog look again.  Loki quickly broke eye contact: a refusal to play Thor’s game.  No, Loki would play his own games, by his own rules.  With a deliberate air of absentmindedness, he reached up again to trace the scar lightly with his finger.

* * *

Gradually, with time and distance, the pain of parting eased; or perhaps it was only that Loki had grown so used to it that he hardly noticed it anymore.  After two years had passed, he began to allow himself, little by little, to spend more time in Thor’s presence—testing the water, as it were—and found that he now felt only a dull ache, not the sharp stab to his heart he had felt at first.

As for Thor: he was no longer looking at Loki with the wounded expression of a dog he had struck; instead, he looked resentful, or coldly angry.  Indeed, these days, he seemed to be angry more often than not.  When sparring, he all too quickly fell into a kind of battle-rage that he had to be pulled out of by a bystander before he injured his opponent.  He was irritable even with his friends, and his temper could erupt at the slightest provocation.  Once he came to blows with Fandral when the latter suggested that he had not been courting any young ladies recently because he knew that he would not be capable of following through on his intentions if he succeeded in wooing them.

Of course, it was a foolish jest, not meant at all seriously, as Fandral protested repeatedly while trying to dodge Thor’s fists or block them with his hands, and as Volstagg and Hogun affirmed while they tried to pull Thor away without being struck themselves.  (Sif, meanwhile, was standing well away from the altercation, simultaneously looking very uncomfortable and trying not to laugh.)  Clearly, though, Fandral had touched a nerve, as Thor confessed when Volstagg and Hogun had finally succeeded in calming him down enough to apologize for his violent overreaction.

“I recently suffered a—a disappointment,” Thor said carefully, looking down.  “It was painful enough that I have not felt ready to… re-enter the arena, as it were.”  He cleared his throat, which was beginning to sound constricted.  “So painful that I do not wish to speak of it, still, even with my closest friends.”

“Not even with your own brother?” Fandral asked, sounding surprised.  Still cradling his jaw where Thor had struck it, he gestured with his head toward Loki, who was trying his best to look just as shocked, concerned, and mystified as the rest of them.

“Loki knows of it,” Thor said, his voice surprisingly neutral.  He looked over at Loki, finally; his eyes were dull, as much resigned as resentful.  “He knew it was not for him to speak of it, either.”

There it was, the sharp stab to the heart.  Loki ducked his head and took in a deep breath through his nose to stem the tears that threatened to come.

“I’m so sorry, Thor,” Fandral said earnestly.  “If I had known, I would never have…”

Thor shook his head.  “But you could not have known.  I alone am to blame for reacting as I did.”

Thor and Fandral embraced briefly, and clapped each other on the back; all was forgiven.  Volstagg and Hogun sighed with relief and exchanged exasperated glances with Sif.  Fortunately, no one looked at Loki, except for Thor.  He must have seen that Loki’s eyes were too bright, his cheeks flushed; must have noticed how he swallowed and cleared his throat too many times, and kept inhaling sharply through his nose.  Despite the dull look in them, Thor’s eyes seemed to burn holes in him.  A shade of bitter triumph had joined the weary resentment: Thor had at last seen Loki’s pain, which for so long he had been keeping to himself—hiding in his room, in his books, like a wounded animal.

Loki set his jaw and stared back.  _I told you that this hurts me, too.  Would you not believe me unless I displayed my wounds?  Did you think the only pain in the world was your own?_ He let the heat of his anger dry up his tears, and resolutely remained with Thor and his friends as they went about the rest of the day’s activities: training with their fellow warriors, drinking and chatting in the soldiers’ pub, dining in the mess hall of the barracks.  They all bade each other good night and retired to their respective quarters, and he and Thor walked back to the royal residence in silence.  Once or twice Thor took a breath as if he wished to say something, but then thought better of it.

Not long after that—a couple of months or so—Thor began flirting again at feasts and dances with the ladies of the court and the comely daughters of foreign emissaries.  Perhaps it was only to quell Fandral’s curiosity about the mysterious cause of his disappointment.  But Loki suspected that Thor also wanted to stick a finger in his wound and see him flinch, and he was determined that Thor should get no such satisfaction.  Sif, of course, was terrible at concealing her jealousy.  Loki, meanwhile—partly out of caution, and partly out of stubborn pride—kept his face as placid and indifferent as a lake on a windless day.  He told himself that these women meant nothing to Thor, that they were only weapons in a war he was fighting with Loki.  Of course, that did not mean that Thor could not still hurt him with such weapons.  But the most he would do to show his hurt was to retire early when Thor was becoming too ostentatious with his flirting.  Retiring early had become such a habit with him already that no one would think anything of it.

The years passed, and eventually they settled into a kind of equilibrium.  Thor was still moody, irritable, quick to anger.  He made a show of high spirits among his friends, but he avoided looking at Loki, unless it was to needle him.  Loki was quiet.  He absorbed all the casual mockery from Thor and his friends, but seldom bothered to requite their jabs as he used to; what would be the point, really?  On some rare occasions, he and Thor would have an amicable conversation during which all their verbal weapons would remain sheathed: they might reminisce about a childhood prank or youthful battle, make fun of an especially pretentious courtier or diplomat, shake their heads over some trouble in the Realms that had come up in the most recent High Council meeting.  Somehow, though, these brief truces only made it all the more painful and disappointing the next time Thor made a dismissive remark about Loki’s “magic tricks” or his wealth of useless knowledge, or laughed at a joke made at his expense.

Loki watched Thor, and when his mind was (mostly) clear of his own pain and grievances, he grew worried.  Thor could not take over the kingship, not like this.  He was too rash, too quick to take insult, too ready to react in anger.  He would rush to judgment on a matter and refuse to be moved from his first opinion even by the sound, measured advice of the most experienced lords of the Council (let alone Loki’s advice).  Some might call it boldness, steadfastness, confidence; Loki called it stubborn arrogance, and he feared for Asgard and the peace of the Nine Realms.

In his darker moments, Loki wondered whether it was his fault.  Surely Thor had not been like this before Loki had ended their affair… had he?  Or had Loki himself been too blinded by his worship and adoration—by the scarce-believing thrill of knowing that Thor wanted _him,_ that the sun had chosen to bestow its light especially upon _him—_ to see the faults that were already there?  And if it had only begun when Loki had ended things between them… was he wrong to have done it?  He had thought it through endlessly, it seemed, turning scenarios over and over in his mind, and simply could not see a way out, a way it might end well for them.  Every path led to rebellion, exile, ignominious death.  What else could he have done?  _(I should never have allowed it to start,_ whispered a dark, cruel voice in Loki’s head.  _I should have left him wanting that one thing he could never have.)_ What else, now, could he do?

If Loki went to their father and told him that he thought Thor was not ready to take the throne, it would only look as if Loki was jealous of Thor and angling for the throne himself.  How could he convince him that it was truly concern for the Realms that spoke, not his own envy or anger or hurt?  (Surely it was not; he knew what he had seen!)

No, he could not _tell_ Odin that Thor was not ready; he had to _show_ it.  Or rather, _Thor_ had to show that he was not ready, that he could not think rationally and levelly in a true crisis, but would react impulsively, recklessly, from his gut.  But that meant there had to _be_ a crisis for him to react to.  Nothing that would genuinely threaten the safety of the realm, of course; but it had to _seem_ like a genuine threat.

Loki had only a year before the coronation; but he had the beginnings of a plan.

* * *

Thor’s coronation was to take place five days before Thrimilci.  It was an auspicious time for beginnings: the height of spring, when the world was riotous with new life, the sun was shining warm on the just-sprouting fields, animals were giving birth, and all the meadows and orchards were in bloom.  The spring festival, it had been decreed, would be incorporated into the week of celebration that was to follow the coronation.

Three days before the coronation, Thor and his friends decided, they were going to go out and get roaring drunk.  It could not be the night before, since it would not do for the future king to show up to his own coronation sleepless and hungover.  Three days, they reasoned, would give them all sufficient time to recover from their overindulgences.

Loki, of course, came too—“Surely you wish to celebrate with your brother!” Fandral prodded him, a little too knowingly, when he hesitated—but made sure that he did _not_ overindulge; at least one of them needed to be sober, to ensure that they all made it home safely.  (Hogun could usually be trusted to consume in moderation, but by midnight he was already tipsier than Loki had ever seen him.)  The six of them—Thor, Loki, Sif, and the Warriors Three—visited all their favorite mead halls and taverns in the city, stopping at each long enough to buy a round of drinks for everyone present (as well as to consume one themselves, of course) before moving on to the next.

Everyone they met toasted Thor’s coronation with them gladly, even raucously.  They were grateful for the drinks, of course, but that was not the only reason; Thor was beloved by all the people, their glowing golden champion.  They loved the All-Father too, of course, but it was more the quiet respect and affection one might have for a distant, venerable grandfather; their love for Thor was like a maiden’s infatuation with the handsome young man who had spent the evening dancing with her.  The Realm loved the All-Father, but she was _in_ love with Thor.  _There, I’ve been replaced already,_ Loki thought sourly.

Since the beginning of the evening, Loki had been drinking only at every other place they visited, and asking for watered wine or a pint of ale or cider; as the night went on, he started drinking only at every third stop, and ordering half pints.  Thor, Volstagg, and Fandral were exactly as roaring drunk as they had intended to become (perhaps even more so), and Sif and Hogun were only a little ways behind.  Having been in a dark mood to begin with, Loki’s mild (or perhaps not so mild) intoxication was only making him feel more irritable and morose, and he was not looking forward to having to shepherd this lot home after all the pubs closed.

He was sitting at the bar of one tavern, a bit apart from Thor and his friends, who were holding court in the middle of the room, and spinning a half-full glass of water around in his hands when a strange man leaned over and spoke to him.  “Jealous?” he asked, not unsympathetically.

Loki jumped.  Since he had just been thinking of the realm as Thor’s new love, he thought at first that the man was asking whether he was jealous about that; but then he realized that he must be asking whether Loki envied Thor the crown.  “Hardly,” he said dryly.  He turned to look at the man properly; he was of medium height and solid build, with dark hair and a short beard, dressed in unpretentious civilian clothing.  He might have been a soldier out of uniform, or an artisan or shopkeeper of the city.

“Why’re you sitting over here by yourself, then?” he prodded.  “Your Highness,” he added hurriedly.  He was clearly quite drunk (as his faint boozy odor confirmed), to be speaking so familiarly to a prince of the realm.  Perhaps, too, he was encouraged by the way Thor was laughing and joking convivially with the commoners around him.

“I don’t like crowds,” Loki said stiffly.  He was too tired either to engage in friendly conversation or to start an argument about proper modes of address.

“Well, it’s a good thing you won’t be king, then,” the man said, his words slightly slurred, nodding over toward the throng surrounding Thor.  “Begging Your Highness’s pardon,” he added, again as an afterthought.

“Perhaps it is,” Loki said shortly.  He turned back to face the bar, which he hoped would indicate that the conversation was at an end.

But alas, the man persisted.  “Well, if you aren’t jealous, how _are_ you feeling, then?  You certainly don’t look happy.”

Loki turned back toward the man and gave him his most incredulous stare.  He didn’t seem troubled by it.  For reasons he didn’t understand, Loki told the truth: “Worried.  Afraid.”

The man nodded understandingly.  “You’re to be his advisor, no?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” Loki confirmed.  Was this common knowledge among the people?  He hadn’t thought they would care much what became of him once Thor was king.

“You’re a clever lad.  Too clever by half, from what I hear—begging your pardon, of course,” the man added yet again, in a sly, confidential tone.  He must have been even drunker than Loki had thought.  “He’ll be all right,” he concluded firmly.

This conversation had long since crossed over into the surreal (perhaps Loki, too, was drunker than he had thought), so Loki told him another truth: “He won’t listen to me.  He never has.”

The man nodded again, sympathetically.  “After a couple of mistakes, though, he’ll learn to listen.  Mark my words.”

Loki turned abruptly to look at him, brow furrowed.  “Kings can’t afford to make mistakes,” he said sharply.

The man laughed.  “Maybe not, but they always do anyway, don’t they?”

“Yes, I suppose they do,” Loki agreed softly.  He wondered whether he, too, had made a terrible mistake.  If so, it was too late to repair it; his plans were in motion already.  Perhaps Thor would prove him wrong.  Perhaps things would turn out all right, somehow, even if he didn’t.

The bartender was announcing last call.  Loki set his water glass heavily down on the bar and dragged himself off the stool to go collect Thor and his friends.  Somehow he coaxed and shooed and chased them all outside and began leading them through the warm spring night, still stumbling and singing snatches of drinking songs and laughing entirely too loudly, back toward the palace.

Along their way back, a few people stuck their heads out windows to shout “Oi!” or “Do you know what time it is?”  One looked down after shouting at them, and quickly added, “Oh, your highnesses, I’m so sorry!”  “Not to worry!” Thor called back jovially, as Vostagg boomed out a laugh, Fandral chuckled, Sif snorted, and Loki sighed exasperatedly while trying to keep chivvying them along.

Once they were within the palace gates, Thor bade a lengthy, noisy farewell to his friends before they stumbled off to their respective quarters and Loki beckoned Thor in the direction of their chambers, sincerely hoping that he wouldn’t have to physically put him to bed.

But no: it was much worse than that.  When they had stopped in front of the door to Thor’s rooms, and Loki was just opening his mouth to say good night before walking the few steps down the hall to his own rooms, Thor strode forward (or rather, half-fell), seized Loki’s shoulders, pinned him with his back against the door, and kissed him.

Thor tasted strongly of the mead and ale he had been drinking, sharp and sour-sweet, and his lips and tongue were clumsy with drink and with need.  Loki’s mind and body alike were torn between hunger and repulsion.  _No, no, we can’t keep doing this, not anymore,_ he thought, panicked.  And: _Will he do it, then?  Overcome my resistance and have me whether I will it or no?_

Loki turned his face away sharply, breaking the kiss.  “Thor, what the Hel are you doing?” he hissed.

“I need you,” Thor said.  His voice was low and pleading, and gravelly from all the drinking and laughing and shouting as well as from his desire.

It was what he had said the night that Loki told him they needed to stop.  As he had that night, Loki replied irritably, “No, you don’t.”  He put his hands on Thor’s chest and pushed him away, firmly but not forcefully.  “What you need is to drink several glasses of water, go to bed, sleep through most of the day tomorrow, and then eat a good solid meal when you wake.”

Thor shook his head.  “No, don’t— You can’t pretend you feel nothing.”  He closed the distance between them again, and drew his hands down Loki’s back, lingering at his hips, until they came to rest cradling the curves of his ass.  “You can’t pretend you don’t want this, too.”

Despite the gentleness of Thor’s touch, Loki could sense the latent strength in his hands and arms.  He felt a white-hot jolt of adrenaline in his stomach, felt his cock begin to thicken and stir.  But he gripped Thor’s wrists firmly and yanked them away.  “I don’t,” he said sharply.

A look of confusion and hurt crossed Thor’s face, but then his determination returned.  “Just once more before I am crowned,” he cajoled, reaching out a hand to stroke through Loki’s hair before cupping his cheek.

Loki gripped Thor’s wrist again, this time digging the tips of his fingers in so that he would inflict a small amount of pain, and shoved his hand away.  “No,” he snapped.  “We’ve had our last time.  It’s done.”

Thor reached out and grasped Loki’s hand this time, perhaps trying to make it harder for Loki to push him away.  “What does that matter, if we still desire one another?”  He brought his other hand up to the nape of Loki’s neck and pulled him forward to kiss him again.

Loki was ready for it this time; he clamped his mouth shut and turned his face away before Thor’s lips could meet his.  With his initial aim frustrated, Thor instead rested his lips on Loki’s temple, mouthing gentle kisses along his hairline.

“It matters because I keep my oaths,” Loki said with quiet viciousness.  “Can you?”

Thor pulled away again to meet Loki’s gaze with consternation plain on his face.  “Of course I—”

Loki interrupted him.  “In three days you will swear the most important oaths there are: to protect and serve the Realm and all the Nine Realms, and to preserve their peace.  Can you keep those oaths, Thor?”

“That is different,” Thor insisted; but Loki could already see that he had no argument.

 _“How_ is it different?” Loki pressed.  He could not keep his voice from trembling—with anger or fear or something else, he did not know.  “If you cannot keep _this_ oath, how will you know you can keep the others?”

Thor stood in open-mouthed silence for a moment, before he protested, “I made no oath.”

“We had an agreement,” Loki said hotly, his voice trembling more than ever.  With his free hand he brushed Thor’s hand away from the back of his neck, and wrested his other hand from Thor’s hold.

“But if we both want out of it—”  Thor’s hand was at the small of his back now, trying to pull him closer.

“What if I don’t?” Loki bit out.  It would really have sounded more convincing if his voice had been steadier.  Part of him was terrified of Thor’s strength and single-minded desire, terrified that ten years of resolution, discipline, and self-deprivation would come to naught.  The other part of him was silently urging, _Do it, do it, force your hand into my breeches, shove me against a wall and make me take it—for what I’ve done, for what I’m about to do, for the honorless traitor I am._

But Thor didn’t.  Instead he removed his hand from Loki’s back of his own accord.  “Don’t you still—want me?” he asked haltingly, forlornly.

Of course, Loki had to lie.  If he told the truth, he would keep Thor’s hope alive; he would renew his advances every time he drank too much at a celebration; and one day, inevitably, he—they—would slip.  Someone would find them together, or hear Thor’s drunken entreaties, or see one leaving the other’s chambers at a suspicious time.  And he didn’t want that, of course, didn’t want to go down together in scandal and infamy that would be told of for ages, destroyed by their mad, impossible love…

“No, I don’t,” he said coldly, managing to control somewhat the shaking in his voice.

Thor stared at him, disbelief only barely keeping the hurt at bay.  “You’re lying,” he said bluntly.

 _“And what if I told you that I didn’t want this after all?  That it was a failed experiment; that I was mistaken about the nature of my feelings for you?”_ Loki had asked that first night, at this time so many years ago.  _“I would say that you were lying,”_ Thor had answered gently, unaccusing.  It was an accusation now.

“Believe what you will,” Loki said harshly, with only the barest hint of a tremor.

Thor shook his head, the hurt now plain in his eyes.  “How, after everything…?”  He trailed off, at a loss.

“Time, Thor,” Loki replied with false compassion.  “Time and distance.  They can cure everything, brother, if you would but let them.”

Loki waited for Thor to reach for him again, but he did not; he only stood crestfallen with his shoulders slumped and his hands hanging loosely at his sides.  With nothing to hold him back, Loki turned and strode quickly down the hall.  Behind him, he heard the sound of a door opening and closing quietly before he opened the door to his own rooms.

He stripped off his clothes slowly, as if in a trance, pulled back the covers, and lay down on the cool sheets.  A soft breeze, redolent of blossoms, was coming through the high window that Loki had left open.  He was still tense and half-hard as well as guilty and heartsore, and could not decide what he needed more: to touch himself, sick with self-loathing, while imagining everything he had dreaded and hoped Thor might do; or to weep.  In the end, he did neither.  Nor could he sleep.  He lay there for the few hours that remained of the night, uncovered but too numb to feel cold, hating himself for everything he had done, everything he wanted, everything he was.

 _Not everything,_ he reminded himself.  _I cannot hate myself for loving him._ For all that it was forbidden, supposedly unnatural and depraved, Loki sometimes felt that it was the only worthy thing about him.

 _And I have this, don’t I?_ he thought bitterly, a cold consolation: _“Whatever is done from love always occurs beyond good and evil.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of Nietzsche quotes and one oblique reference:
> 
> \- The thing about sliding down an inclined plane into nothing is a nod to _On the Genealogy of Morality,_ Third Essay, section 25: "Since Copernicus, man seems to have got himself on an inclined plane--now he is slipping faster and faster away from the center into--what? into nothingness? into a _'penetrating_ sense of his nothingness'?" I thought it sort of made sense with all the sun metaphors...  
>  \- "You great star, what would your happiness be had you not those for whom you shine?" is from the Prologue of _Thus Spoke Zarathustra._  
>  \- "Whatever is done from love always occurs beyond good and evil" is aphorism 153 of _Beyond Good and Evil._ It also provided the title for this series, and was quoted at the end of Part 2 of the series, [The Tree of Knowledge](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6209017).


End file.
